


next of kin

by addandsubtract



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Developing Relationship, Dominance, M/M, Mild Praise Kink, Missions Gone Wrong, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: “Barton,” Une says, voice almost as expressionless as her face. Almost. “You’re needed in the L1 cluster, colony J-17582.”
Relationships: Trowa Barton/Heero Yuy
Comments: 31
Kudos: 36





	next of kin

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is what happens when i think to myself, “oh it would be fun to write sex pollen” and then don’t actually really do that.
> 
> also: the tags probably make this fic seem more dire and/or kinky than it is. or maybe not!

The call comes in half an hour after the show ends for the evening. Catherine is in her trailer, taking off her makeup, and Trowa is in his own, still visibly new and spotlessly clean. He’s out of his costume, but he hasn’t showered off the sweat from the lights.

Une’s face is blank when he answers. She’s always been stoic when necessary, but the politics since the war are more complicated than ever, and her mask has sharpened as a result. Trowa hasn’t spoken to her in almost a year, but he keeps apprised of any big moves the Preventers are making. He can’t always tell where Heero’s hands have been, but he has gotten good at spotting the outcome of Heero’s work.

“Barton,” Une says, voice almost as expressionless as her face. Almost. “You’re needed in the L1 cluster, colony J-17582.”

“Why?” Trowa asks.

“Yuy has you listed as his emergency contact,” she says. “You’re needed. I’ll fill you in with what we know when you’re en route.”

Trowa tells Catherine, trusting her to let everyone else know. He says, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Catherine shakes her head. “Go. I’ll cover for you.”

The last shuttle leaves L3 at 11:30pm, and Trowa makes it just under the wire, sliding into a seat as the doors are closing. He’s tense, and spends the first fifteen minutes doing finger stretches. Once he’s in L1 Une will have transport set up for him, but the trip out will take several hours. He should sleep, but he’s too keyed up. Heero isn’t dead, certainly, but if Une needs Trowa it’s because they can’t move him.

Experience means Trowa understands exactly how far he can push his body before he collapses, and one sleepless night will barely register. He stares out into the stars and remembers drifting there, gasping for breath, certain he would die alone. He won’t let Heero think the same.

The transport is a puddle-jumper, made for short trips between neighboring colonies, and Trowa has it all to himself. The pilot, suited in a Preventers uniform, wordlessly hands Trowa a small computer before starting her pre-flight checklist. Trowa calls Une.

“You’re nearly there, good,” Une says.

“Yes. What can you tell me?”

Une shakes her head, a momentary flash of exhaustion worming through her blank exterior. “I don’t know much, truly. He was on assignment at J-17582, undercover, and it went sideways.”

“Collateral damage?” Trowa asks.

“Yes,” Une says, but she doesn’t elaborate. “He was certainly dosed with something, but no one can get close enough to him to figure out what. You know how quickly he metabolizes sedatives. They must’ve given him a massive amount of whatever he’s on for it to have the effect it’s having.”

“And me?”

“You’re listed in his file, and he asked for you,” Une says. “The good news is that he was coherent enough to return to our temporary base of operations. But the personnel on the ground haven’t been able to give me any significant updates on his status.” She shrugs. It’s not casual, it’s an indication of how far things have gone.

Trowa just waits, keeping his face as empty as Une’s. Finally she looks away.

“You know who — and what — he is. He won’t let anyone else in,” she says. “But it may be dangerous for you nonetheless.”

“Understood,” Trowa says. “ETA 30 minutes.”

Une nods.

Two more Preventers agents meet Trowa at the port. He doesn’t recognize either of them, but other than Heero, Wufei, Sally, and Une, Trowa wouldn’t. He can tell they’re both ex-military by the way they hold themselves, but they could be Oz or Romefeller or White Fang. Une didn’t have the luxury of being picky about the origin of those enlisting with her. He stays quiet and makes himself as invisible as possible, idly listening to them chatter about how boring this field operation is. They obviously have not seen or heard anything about Heero.

While in transit, Trowa had sent a message — not quite an SOS — to the other pilots, informing them that he’s on the move. Wufei is in India on a mission, and Quatre is deep in policy meetings on L4. Duo will be the first to see it, whenever he wakes up. He’s just off a cargo run through the asteroid belt dividing L2 and L3.

They won’t be alarmed, but they’ll be on alert, and paying attention to the news out of L1. Just in case.

The Preventers base of operations on the colony is in a run down office building on the edge of an industrial district. The inside has been gutted and remodeled into an intelligence hub, cubicles overflowing with vid screens, hooked up to cameras obviously seeded throughout many of the nearby warehouse buildings. There are audio stations, several men and women seated with their backs to the door, headphones covering their ears. It’s a big operation. Trowa spares a moment to be curious about the mission itself, but ultimately files it away as unimportant. He’s only here for Heero.

“Who is in charge here?” Trowa asks, and the Preventer to his left — name tag: Miyabe — raises an eyebrow, his mouth quirked into a half smile.

“Burrows, but he’s in meetings. You here for him?”

“You don’t know where I’m supposed to be going?” Trowa asks.

“We were just told to get you here,” the other — name tag: Lemaire — says. She’s looking at him like she’s only just noticed that he’s several years younger than her.

“Burrows, then,” Trowa says.

“His office is up one floor. If you’ve gotten to the medics you’re too far.”

Trowa nods, and leaves them, wondering at the lack of security. Or, potentially, the trust in their superiors.

He doesn’t have to go far, because as he’s approaching the stairs, a man comes out of the elevator — he’s tall, broad, with dark skin and a shaved head, and looks to be in his mid to late 40s. He holds himself like an officer. 

“You must be Barton,” he says, and holds out his hand. “Une told me to expect you.”

Trowa shakes it, out of politeness, and says, “Where is he?”

Burrows winces, and the honesty of it pushes him higher in Trowa’s esteem.

“He’s chased the medics out of their office, two floors up.”

“Is he coherent?”

“More or less,” Burrows says, and sighs. “Enough to get words out, not enough to trust us anywhere near him.”

“Evacuate the floor, if you haven’t already,” Trowa says. “And don’t send anyone up after me until I’ve let you know it’s safe to. I’ll report back when the situation is under control.”

“Already evacuated. What if he harms you?” Burrows says it kindly, like he already knows what Trowa’s response is going to be.

“He won’t.”

“Son —” Burrows says.

“He asked for me because he knows I can handle it,” Trowa says, which isn’t entirely the truth, but close enough in uncertain company. Burrows studies Trowa’s face for a long moment, and Trowa holds still under his scrutiny. He can tell what kind of officer Burrows is — stern but generous, ultimately, and observant. He goes a way towards explaining Miyabe and Lemaire.

“Alright,” Burrows says. “But take a radio, just in case.”

The medical team cleared out of their space in a hurry, it looks like — there are several boxes of bandages left in the middle of being sorted and stowed, and all the computers are still on. Burrows told him that they’d removed most of the cubicles to make the medical bay as open and clean as possible, but that a few of the offices in the back had been outfitted instead as private rooms, in the case of any serious injuries. Heero’s closed himself in one of them.

It’s immediately clear which one, since of the three, only one door is closed. Trowa makes a quick note of the cameras, and recognizes that one of the teams downstairs must be monitoring the whole building for intrusions.

He knocks once, and then again. It’s not a code, but it’s how Trowa announced his presence when Heero was recovering in Catherine’s trailer after he self-destructed. Trowa listens intently, but he doesn’t hear a sound.

“Heero, I’m coming in,” he says. No response.

He pushes the door open, letting it swing with the momentum rather than keeping hold of the door knob. The room looks like a hurricane has hit it — bed shoved against one wall hard enough to dent the plaster, several overturned carts strewn with medical supplies, linens tossed over the slatted drapes to further obscure the window. Heero is sitting in the corner with his knees pulled up. He’s absolutely drenched in blood. It’s soaked into his shirt at the wrists, splashed across his chest, his knees, and down his shins. It’s splattered on his face and neck, drying between his fingers and around the beds of his fingernails.

Heero looks at him with eyes so blown out the blue of his iris has all but disappeared. Trowa crouches in the doorway, and keeps his hands where Heero can see them.

“Are you injured?”

Heero stares at him for a long moment, before shaking his head once.

“Are you safe?”

Another pause, before Heero shakes his head again.

“Okay. I’m going to take care of the cameras. Can I come in for just a moment?”

“Not a good idea,” Heero says, voice a croak, like he’s been screaming.

“Understood. They gave me a radio. I’m going to leave it here, and on, so we’ll know if they’re coming up. Does that sound acceptable?”

Heero nods. Trowa reaches in to leave the radio on the floor by the door, and backs out to start dealing with the surveillance equipment. He’s not a pro the way Heero is, but he can switch off and cover cameras, and he can locate the mics embedded in the walls nearby and pry them out with a scalpel. It’s more important to have privacy than to save the Preventers some money. Heero has done enough to earn that.

Eventually he circles back the room, grabbing a set of scrubs from one of the closets outside the main office. Heero hasn’t moved. “I’m not going to come near you,” Trowa says. “But I am going to take down that camera in the far corner. Nod if you understand me.”

Heero does. His eyes follow Trowa, so intense, so focused, and so deeply compromised that only practice borne from working undercover in several wars allows Trowa to turn away. He keeps his shoulders loose, leaves his back to Heero as he takes down the last of the equipment. Heero could tell if he was scared, if he was nervous, and he’d react to it.

An unfamiliar voice squawks through the radio: “Med bay’s gone dark.”

Burrows replies: “Leave it, the situation is under control.”

Trowa relaxes slightly. He turns back to Heero and crouches again, inside the room this time but still in the opposite corner. “Just us, now. What do you need?”

“I don’t know,” Heero says, with some difficulty. “I’m not sure what they gave me.”

‘I’m not sure’ is different from ‘I don’t know’ when it comes to external substances. Trowa says, “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Itchy,” Heero says. “Restless. Violent. Aroused.”

Trowa wishes he were surprised. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Heero says.

“You asked for me,” Trowa points out.

“Yes,” Heero says. “But you should have said no.”

Trowa refrains from rolling his eyes. “And you should know me better than that.”

Heero says nothing, but his hands clench and unclench, pressed against his knees.

“I brought you a change of clothes,” Trowa says. “How long has it been since you were dosed?”

“Eight hours,” Heero says. He’s staring at Trowa, nearly unblinking. “If I move I won’t be able to stop.”

Trowa wants to inch closer, but this isn’t Duo or Quatre. It’s Heero. “Stop what?”

“I don’t know,” Heero says, voice a frustrated growl. “Touching you? Hurting you? I don’t know.”

“You’re not faster than me.”

“Room’s too small for acrobatics to work in your favor.” 

It’s a fair point. Trowa could kick one of the carts into Heero’s path, but there’s no guarantee he’d get out unscathed. Not that he expects to, or cares much.

“Stay still, then,” Trowa says, decision made. He stays low, working his way to Heero slowly and methodically. Heero doesn’t tell him not to, but his eyes are trained on Trowa’s face, and his fingers are digging into his jeans hard enough to rip the fabric. Trowa is playing with fire, but Trowa has always taken risks, has always flirted with his own harm. He has always known how important Heero is.

Finally, he’s close enough that he could reach out and touch. The scrubs are stuffed under his arm in a sloppy bundle, and he carefully sets them on the floor. Heero’s eyes flick over and then back.

“What are your instincts telling you?” Trowa asks.

“To wrap my hands around your throat and push,” Heero says. “To bite into your cheek and draw blood. To kiss you.”

Trowa watches Heero struggle with it. In the years since the end of the war, Heero has stopped by the circus every few months, when Une tells him to take a weekend off, or a longer leave. Trowa supposes there are other places he could go, but it never seemed to occur to Heero. Trowa enjoys Heero’s company, so he hadn’t suggested an alternative. That’s part of the reason Trowa ended up getting his own trailer — three people in Catherine’s was too much. He wasn’t expecting to see Heero again for another six weeks or so, but he had expected something.

“You don’t have to do anything but concentrate on holding still,” Trowa says. “I’ll do all the work.” He reaches forward to touch Heero’s wrists, wrapping his hands around them. He can feel the tendons jump underneath his fingertips as Heero strains against his desire — false or otherwise — to move. “This is all me, not you.”

Heero doesn’t relax, but he doesn’t break Trowa’s grip, either, not when Trowa puts Heero’s hands to the side, pressing his palms to the floor, nor when Trowa lets go with one hand to start unbuttoning the front of his blood-soaked shirt.

“Wait,” Heero says, and Trowa goes still. Heero’s eyes are on Trowa’s mouth, his breath coming fast and harsh. Trowa watches his fingernails scratch against the linoleum floor and then go limp. “Okay. Okay.”

Trowa nods, and continues his work, until the last button comes loose and the shirt hangs open across Heero’s chest. Trowa pushes it off of his shoulders, down to the floor, and picks up each of Heero’s hands, calmly stripping the shirt the rest of the way off and tossing it toward the overturned bed to his left.

Heero makes a caught noise, like a trapped animal, but doesn’t tell Trowa to stop.

The pants are going to be harder, so Trowa doesn’t try, for now. There are dried pink splotches on Heero’s chest where the blood has seeped through, but Heero’s restraint is, though impressive, still limited. Without looking away, Trowa grabs the top of the scrubs set, and threads Heero’s right arm through one sleeve, then the left. Heero’s shoulders are so tense they’re shaking, but he’s silent. In one move, Trowa tugs the shirt over his head, arm close enough for Heero to get his teeth into, and then pulls the whole thing down. It’s big, because despite several years of regular meals, Heero remains small and solid. It almost makes him look like a kid, except for the blood on his hands, the intense set of his eyes and mouth, the way he huffs out a soft breath before tipping his head back against the wall behind him.

“Status?” Trowa asks.

“Tense,” Heero says. “I’m — resisting. You’re too close.”

“Do you need me to back away?”

“Trowa,” Heero says, and it’s not pleading, because Heero doesn’t know how to plead, but it’s soft, almost needy.

“Will you hurt yourself if I leave you here alone?”

There’s a long pause, one that Trowa can easily interpret as reluctance, because Heero says, “I don’t know.”

It’s closer to a yes than Trowa is comfortable with. “I’m staying. There’s no point in restraining you, but I do want to at least get you out of those shoes and pants.”

“Trowa —”

“All you have to do is stay still and do what I tell you,” Trowa says. He doesn’t know how to be soothing. He doesn’t know how to be soft. But nonetheless Heero shudders all over and goes quiet. “Stretch out your legs.”

Heero’s eyes are still on the ceiling, but he follows direction. His palms remain flat on the floor. He’s clenching his teeth hard enough to cut glass.

Trowa reaches forward and starts on his shoelaces, which are tacky with half-dried blood. Trowa wonders, idly, how many people Heero killed on his way here, but he can’t find it in him to feel bad for any of them. They did this to Heero, and therefore deserved it. He can rely on others for stricter morality.

The shoes are easy, once Trowa picks apart the knots. The pants remain the most difficult. Trowa smooths his hands over Heero’s shins, a warning, and then pops the button on his jeans. Heero jolts, breath stuttering. Trowa can see how hard he is, even through the fabric, and takes care with the zipper to put as little pressure as possible there. When he looks up, Heero’s eyes are screwed shut, his brow furrowed, his lower lip pulled between his teeth. If the situation were any other kind, if Trowa was in any other headspace, he might appreciate it.

Now, here, he says, “Lift your hips, please,” and waits patiently while Heero works himself up to it, and then does. His thighs are trembling, either with arousal, or with the urge to lash out. Maybe both. Trowa is as quick and efficient as he can be, pulling the jeans down over Heero’s legs, ignoring the soft gasp he makes as the cool air hits the thin cotton of his underwear, and then pulling the scrubs back up, settling the elastic waistband as gently as he can. “Okay, good.”

Heero lets out a pent breath, sagging back to the floor, and Trowa contemplates a next move. He can’t leave Heero like this. He doesn’t have any more information now than when he entered the room, except the nature of the drug Heero was dosed with.

“I have some questions,” Trowa starts, carefully. “Will you answer them?”

“I will try,” Heero says, between gritted teeth.

“Is it easier, with me telling you what to do?”

Heero nods. “Yes.”

“Because then you only have to focus on a few things?”

“Maybe. And — you secured the room.”

“You trust me to keep the room safe.”

Heero’s head tilts back down, eyes opening, still more pupil than iris. “Yes,” he says.

Trowa nods. That’s good. He’s reasonably sure Heero never had to worry about security anyway, unless there’s a mole Trowa doesn’t know about, but Trowa showing up and taking charge seems to have been enough to assuage some of his ingrained instincts. “Do you need to touch me, or can I touch you?”

“I — don’t know,” Heero says. Trowa notes the slight hesitation.

“But you think?”

“The urge for climax seems to be the most powerful one.”

“Understood.” And all that work getting him into new clothes. “In that case, I would like permission to touch you.”

It’s not precisely an order. The orders might help Heero in his current state, but Trowa can’t quite convince himself of the morality of ordering Heero to let Trowa get him off. He’s already so compromised.

Either way, Heero may feel that he was unable to consent when he looks back on this later, but Trowa has limited options, and will take whatever repercussions Heero feels are necessary.

“Yes,” Heero says. His voice cracks slightly on the word, the closest to desperation Trowa has ever heard him. The team downstairs is lucky for his prodigious capabilities and iron-clad control. Anyone else would have done much worse than kill their way out of the hornet’s nest and hole themselves up in the medics’ quarters.

“Lift your hips again,” Trowa says. He is trying to keep his voice steady and even, but despite the breadth of his lived experiences, this one is new for him, and uncomfortable. Yes, Heero has stayed with him for days that have sometimes strung together into weeks, but they both went back to their separate beds. Trowa may have thought of what it would be like to touch Heero, but he’s never done it.

Not in Catherine’s trailer while Heero was recuperating, not during their fatalistic road trip across Europe, not in Antarctica, not when Trowa’s memory returned, and not on Peacemillion. Not in the aftermath of Mariemaia. Not in all of the weeks he’s spent in Trowa’s orbit since.

Now, here, in a makeshift hospital room strewn with broken medical equipment, with Heero drugged out of his mind on some kind of aphrodisiac, now Trowa will touch him. Heero lifts his hips, and Trowa carefully tugs down the scrub pants and Heero’s underwear in one, letting them sit around his thighs. Heero’s fingernails scrape against the floor, his cock bobbing up, pink and warm and sticky at the tip. Trowa pushes the shirt up, too, enough to expose Heero’s stomach in an attempt to keep the fabric clean.

Heero’s hips work, like he’s trying to get contact. Trowa puts a hand flat on his stomach and presses him back down to the floor.

He says, “Be still, I’ve got you,” and wraps his hand around Heero’s cock, grip firm but loose. He rubs his palm over the tip, gathering wetness, and uses it to make the slide slightly easier. Heero grunts, thighs tensing and going slack as he works to stay motionless. He’s already breathing quickly, his eyes trained on Trowa’s face rather than on the hand touching him.

“Good,” Trowa says. “That’s exactly it.” The words — praise, really — slip out without him meaning them to, but Heero settles, relaxing minutely. He’s still strung tighter than a bow, but he seems less likely to snap.

Trowa focuses on his grip, his free hand still on Heero’s stomach, keeping him down. Heero’s cock twitches with every stroke, and Trowa knows that Heero is too close to the edge, he’s been waiting too long to draw this out at all. Trowa twists his hand, keeping his eyes on Heero’s face, watching the way he bites his lips, the way his breath sticks in his throat.

“I know you need this,” Trowa says, meeting Heero’s gaze. He doesn’t know what makes him say it, but it feels right. “It’s okay. You’re doing such a good job.”

Heero makes a caught noise — something that’s a cross between a growl and a whimper, and squeezes his eyes closed as he starts to come, cock kicking in Trowa’s hand, spitting come over Trowa’s fists, droplets hitting Heero’s stomach and the top of his thighs. He sags, a fine tremor running through him, as Trowa strokes him through it, catching the last of Heero’s orgasm in his palm.

Trowa lets go, but doesn’t sit back. He reaches over to the toppled bed and wrenches the fitted sheet off of it, wiping off his hand and then using one corner to clean Heero’s stomach and cock and thighs. Heero is still half-hard, still panting, his hands still planted on the floor at his sides.

“Did that help at all?” Trowa asks.

“Some,” Heero says. “Not enough.”

“What do you need?”

“I don’t —” Heero seems at a loss for words. “More.”

“Immediately?”

“No, I can wait. A bit.”

Trowa nods. “I’m going to get you some water, and I’m going to let Burrows know I have everything under control. Stay still and calm for ten minutes while I do that. Okay?”

Heero’s eyes track around the room, to the bloodstained clothes on the floor by the bed, the empty place where the camera used to be. “Okay.”

Trowa is precise about the timing. Heero will be counting, after all, and relying on his estimate to be accurate. Trowa checks in briefly with Burrows, who seems relieved that Trowa is uninjured and unsurprised that Trowa needs the floor to stay cleared. No one else bothers him. He makes his way back up, finding a water jug near the entrance to the medic’s floor, and filling a mug stolen from one of the desks, covered in a gaudy holographic decal that says “Universe’s Best Dad!” in huge letters. He stops at one of the empty computer terminals to send a quick update to the rest of the pilots: _situation is under control, stand down_ , before returning to the back room. Heero hasn’t moved, not even to tug his clothes back on, which is gratifying in a way, and disturbing in another. He’s putting his faith in Trowa to take care of everything else, so Trowa needs to make sure he does so.

“Status?”

“More or less the same.”

Trowa nods, and holds the mug to Heero’s mouth. “Drink.”

Heero does, Trowa watching the steady bob of his throat.

Trowa puts the empty mug aside, and takes in the flush tracking across Heero’s cheeks, the quickness of his breath. He’s fully hard again, ready to go, and antsy with it.

“If you told me you had to hurt me to feel sated I would let you,” Trowa says. “If you do, don’t feel guilty about it.” He’ll let Heero bite him if he needs to. He’ll let Heero draw blood. It’s not Heero’s fault that they’re here, and he’ll do what he has to.

“I can’t tell,” Heero says. “I’m unfamiliar with much of this.”

Trowa nods. “I’m going to touch you again.”

“Please,” Heero says. It’s the closest Trowa’s ever heard him get to begging.

Heero doesn’t come quite as quickly the second time. By the third time, he’s sweaty and pink all over, breath gasping out of him as he spills on Trowa’s hand. Trowa can tell he’s getting tired, but that doesn’t guarantee this is almost finished.

“Can you sleep?” Trowa asks, after wiping them down a third time. Heero shrugs, still trembling through aftershocks that could just as easily turn into renewed arousal.

“Will you touch me?” Heero asks.

“Again?”

“No. Just contact. Skin.”

It’s clear enough. Trowa keeps a close eye on Heero’s face, pushes both hands underneath Heero’s shirt, palming his stomach and chest. He has to lean closer to do it, and he can feel the way Heero shudders, the fine tremor as the heat of Trowa’s skin works its way through him. The violence in him could win out, and if it did so now Trowa would be hard pressed to defend himself. He can’t make himself worry about it.

“When did you make me your emergency contact?” Trowa asks. He’s been puzzling over it in the back of his mind.

Heero sighs and blinks slowly. Trowa can’t tell if his pupils are less dilated or not. “When you got your new trailer. It was because of me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Trowa says. “It seemed like a good investment.”

“That’s why,” Heero says. His eyes slide closed. “Ah, I think — one more.”

When Trowa moves to pull back, Heero shakes his head. It takes Trowa a moment, but they’ve always worked well with non-verbal cues. He stays close, leaves one hand stroking Heero’s skin, and pulls the other back and down to wrap around Heero’s cock.

The warmth and weight of it is familiar by now, but with his hand pressed against Heero’s chest he can feel the minute movements when Heero draws in breath, the stutters that roll through him as Trowa speeds up his strokes. In some ways this is the closest he’s ever felt to Heero, despite the weeks they’ve spent in each other company. He feels certain that he knows Heero’s body better than anyone alive.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re fine.” He rubs his fingers up, over Heero’s collarbone and back down over his chest, the ridges of his abdominals. Heero’s breath hitches, and Trowa rubs his thumb over the head of Heero’s cock, stroking the slit there, gathering precome on his fingertips.

Heero groans, and asks, “Can I —”

“Yes,” Trowa says, without asking for clarification.

Heero, who all of this time has had his hands tucked against the floor at his sides, leans in and presses his face against Trowa’s neck. His mouth is wet, panting humid breaths against Trowa’s pulse point, and Trowa expects Heero to bite down, expects the scrape of teeth, but he gets neither. Heero just shudders again, back curved awkwardly as he pushes forward, tucking his nose behind Trowa’s ear.

Trowa doesn’t think about it. It might come back to him later, in the darkness of night, while he’s jerking off, but for now he has Heero’s trust in him, the heft of Heero’s cock in his hand, Heero’s mouth resting against his skin. It’s more than enough.

It takes a long time for Heero to finally cry out, the sound muffled against Trowa’s neck, and come. The pulses are weaker, Heero’s body taxed from everything he’s done today, everything he’s been through. This close, touching in this many places, Trowa feels the way Heero sags, going limp.

Trowa doesn’t move him, just gently cleans him up a fourth time, and gingerly tugs his underwear and scrubs back up over his hips. Heero moves just enough not to hinder him, but appears entirely pliant at this point. Once Trowa is satisfied, he slides his arm around Heero’s side and back, rubbing over his ribs and spine and all the muscle packed around them. It’s almost an embrace. The contact seemed to help before.

“Status?” Trowa asks.

“Better. Less overwhelmed.” His words are a rumble against Trowa’s skin and palms.

“Calm enough to get a medic in here for real bloodwork?”

“No,” Heero says, tensing up again. “Not yet.”

“There’s no hurry,” Trowa says. “I’ll report in when it makes sense to, not before.”

Heero relaxes again, slowly. There’s a silence, in which Trowa thinks about both of them reaching out in their own way, making sure of each other and themselves. He wonders whether this will disrupt that, or nudge it forward. He’s not the type to ask. He’d rather wait and find out.

Eventually, he realizes that Heero has fallen asleep. He won’t stay that way for long, but the sheer fact of it is a relief after the ordeal of the day. He’s slid down off the high enough to relax, and he trusts Trowa enough to keep him safe. Once his body has recovered some, his better instincts will kick in, but until then, Trowa will keep watch. Everything else can wait.


End file.
